It has taken me a very long time to be ready to write this, but because this is my way to be anonymous and to express at least some of the things that trouble me, I decided to write this. It’s not a justification, there isn’t one. I’m very sorry if it comes across as chaotic. I just can’t properly structure my thoughts.
Throughout my life, I’ve known that I’m an awful person. As a young teenager, my first girlfriend, the only one I ever truly loved, I sometimes think, couldn’t take the pressure of growing up as a lesbian in deeply conservative surroundings and took her own life. I could never show anyone how I truly felt, I couldn’t ever let anyone see the letter that she wrote me before she did it.
Perhaps that’s why I can’t maintain relationships. Or things never got far enough for my many deep flaws to show themselves. Since then, I’ve had dozens of relationships and too many brief flings to keep count. Every single relationship I’ve ever been in failed. There were several reasons, but a few came up time and time again. First of all, I’m a workaholic, and secondly, well, I have quite a tendency to cheat. I know that it’s bad and I really hate it about myself. But somehow, I can’t keep myself under control. I’m a lustful person, and I just can’t resist it. Lust has always been one of my greatest drives, alongside my ambition. And it’s destroyed so much. I don’t know why this is, but sometimes, I think that it is because I’m seen as pretty. It’s just too easy to get what I want.
Some people think that women like me must have tremendous self-control. I always work, never linger in bed, never eat sweets or fatty food, and countless more such things. But the truth is much simpler. I don’t care for many such things. And every idiot knows that it’s very easy to restrain yourself from eating something you don’t even like. I can’t stand being idle and I hate it when I’m too tired to work.
When I found myself an adult, moving out into the city, having only ever tasted so many things through the internet. Perhaps that’s why I find it easy to share things anonymously. But anyways, here I was. A young student, poor and naïve. I however always detested being poor. As a child, I often stole what I wanted to get what was forbidden to me. Later on, I wasn’t that stupid anymore.
No, I instead used what I had been lucky enough to get. I’ve always been quite close to our society’s twisted standards of beauty, being tall, thin, and having the right kind of face and hair. I knew that I was pretty, so I began to work as a model. At first, it was only for smaller local things as well as going to trade fairs to basically be living decoration at stands, but it quickly grew into more. I started doing shows and campaigns and have been on the cover of major magazines.
I could have become rich through that. I had the opportunity to be the face of major campaigns by serious fashion brands, but I didn’t dare to. I was afraid of my family finding out and them permanently casting me out. It was a thought I couldn’t deal with. So, I kept my profile relatively low. So people who knew me wouldn’t find out. My face wasn’t in the windows of local shops, but I did do shows and plenty of photoshoots. I was in magazines, but my family wouldn’t ever even look at those.
I had a decent enough income and was quite rich for a student. But it wasn’t enough for me. That’s always been one of my greatest flaws. It’s never enough or good enough. I always want more, to be better. When I moved abroad for my master’s, I found that I could still live comfortably, but my eternal flaw rose again. I wanted more and tuition was a pain. It was as a student in the UK that it began. I was in the middle of a research project and was spending all of my time on it.
And that led to another relationship crashing. I felt bad for a little while, but then, I started wondering. Why did I keep doing this to myself? I knew that I couldn’t maintain relationships. I knew that no one ever really loved me. They only ever loved my body or the me I projected. I’m not a good person. I’m selfish, I’m greedy, I’m disloyal, and above all, I’m ruthlessly ambitious.
I knew that I could never have a relationship that worked out. I just wasn’t cut out for it. For a while, I returned to what I always did when I was single, going out all the time for plenty of one night stands. When I woke up in another strange woman’s bed, I got thinking. Why was I going through all of this effort? I knew they wanted to sleep with me. I could always get someone. But still, it was stressful to have to go to bars and the like. And worse to someone like me, it actually wasn’t cheap. There also was the awkwardness of waking up and having to explain that I wasn’t interested in a relationship at all.
So, I spoke to a woman I had met a few times. I knew that she ran an escort agency for women. And, well, I asked her what it would take. We discussed a few things, and in the end, I reached a decision.
Two weeks later. I went on a date with a woman I didn’t know. She paid me for it. It felt wrong to me. I was incredibly nervous. But to be honest, it was fun. She had never been with a woman before, she wanted to try, but was too frightened to just ask someone out. Somehow, I managed to justify what I was doing even though there was this little voice in the back of my head telling me that it was all wrong.
I knew that I was bad, it was wrong. But somehow, I managed to overcome the feeling. I liked the money. It wasn’t as much as I would make while modeling, but I got it for doing what I would have done normally, only without being paid for it. Added to that, modeling might give quite a bit of money for the time spent, but it always depended on how many jobs there were. And I just didn’t have the desire to make it as a model.
And besides, now they at least wanted more than just my body, they wanted my company. I told myself, what’s the different from getting gifts and getting my dinner paid and getting actual money? The gifts just were a bit larger, the restaurants a bit fancier. And now I wasn’t giving anyone any false hope.
I told myself so many things to make me believe that what I was doing was good. In a way, I loved the women I was sleeping with. I gave myself the feeling that I was helping them in at least some cases. I found myself with women I would never have met otherwise. And, to be honest, I liked the money and the sex.
But all the time, this doubt remained. Despite everything I told myself, I was a prostitute. In a way, it was better than being a model. I got a far greater proportion of the money that was being made (although, I still of course paid a little to the agency for taking care of quite a few things) and got to meet plenty of interesting women.
But there were dark sides. On several occasions, I was utterly terrified. I’ve had to use actual physical violence to protect myself from men. But not even that was the worst. No, that was the sheer shame. Everything I did was wrong, despite the little lies I could tell myself. I was only deceiving myself, I was treating myself as a commodity, as an object.
I might have said that I was helping women, but I wasn’t. I tried telling myself that it was just being plain regular old me. But it wasn’t. All I did was lie. Even more so than I had done before. But the very worst was a kind of alienation. Whenever I looked into the mirror, I no longer saw a person. I saw a tool. That was what my body was becoming to me. I had already had that feeling when I just worked as a model, but things only got worse and worse.
While I did this, there were other things I liked. I slept with some pretty powerful women. That’s always been something I’ve been drawn to. I just love success. I know that I could just go and write a tell-all memoir and get sued into oblivion while dragging down some pretty impressive careers. But that’s not what I want. In the end, we all were victims of the same problem. We were all put into this position because of patriarchy. Many of the women I was with couldn’t face the social consequences of being with a woman or they lacked the self-confidence for it. The whole idea of beauty standards had given many the idea that they were completely unloveable. But I didn’t do anything to really help them. I might have given the feeling that I cared, but in the end, they still had to pay for it. I only made things worse.
There sometimes was a kind of self-pity, I freely admit that. I’m far too selfish not to have that. But one thing that always killed that feeling was talking to women who were more traditional escorts. The kind that everyone thinks of when hearing the term. High-class and all that stuff that gets glorified. And I only saw a far deeper pain than I was experiencing.
At least I was with women. I wasn’t being hurt and humiliated. I met some sort of love. They never did. They were just pretty tools for the pleasure of men. I heard utterly awful stories. Of course, these women weren’t suffering like others were, who had been placed lower on the ladder that patriarchy has put up for us. But they still suffered. They felt horrible, they felt dehumanized.
And that helped me deny my own suffering. I told myself that I was different, that my life was different. It was, but still, I was losing touch with myself. Or rather, I had never really been in touch with myself. I was damaged. Perhaps it’s my upbringing, perhaps it’s my need for secrecy, but it’s hurting.
Doing this gave me one thing that I had missed. It gave me the feeling that I could be loved, that I could be worth something. Of course, all I said and did was a complete lie, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was this feeling, this one little pinprick of light and hope. It was false, I’ve always known that, but I needed the illusion. Every single night, it was like a compliment. Someone wanted me. But the truth is, everyone only ever wants the mask, never the truth.
And I still need it. I’m still unloveable, and I’ve only made things worse by all of my mistakes. I’m a terrible person, I’m selfish, I’m lustful, I’m disloyal. My only virtues are that I’m hard-working, relatively intelligent and am rather good at finding out what those around me want without them having to tell me. That’s all of it. I often feel like I’m not really capable of caring for others anymore. That I’m dead inside, that all that’s left is an endless series of masks.
I love women. I love my sisters in every possible way, but at the same time, I’m flawed. I’m a coward. And everything I’ve done only makes it harder to ever let the truth come out. If that ever happens, all my hope for a career is gone because of my stupid selfishness and greed.
Yes, I’ve become moderately wealthy. If I didn’t care about work, I could do nothing for the rest of my life and live in comfort. But I can’t. I won’t. I need work. I want to be adored, I want to be admired. And for one time, I don’t want to be admired for how I look. I want to be admired for my mind. Only, it’s broken. I’ve broken it.
There have only been a few things that were able to keep me going. The first is my career. I know that I keep going on about it, but it is the heart of my life. Secondly, there has been my love for my fellow woman. Every time I could do something, it was like a tiny point of light. Whether it was in bed or as a volunteer. I believe in creating a better world through sisterhood, it’s the only way we have. All others are only delusions.
The final thing keeping me going has been my daughter. I know that it sounds silly because she’s only been in my life for less than a year, but it feels good. It feels like I can really mean something for her and the moment that the adoption was finally done will never leave me.
But it’s not enough. Nothing ever is. I keep fleeing the truth, I keep hiding myself in the arms of strangers. I don’t know how to escape myself, I don’t know how to turn my life around. All I know is that this way, I’m only making things worse. I will be quitting soon, I’m going to stop my modeling work anyways because I’m an old hag now, and I’m in the process of building up my own lab. It’s time to start life.
I however fear that I’ll never be able to really leave this behind. In some ways, I’ve been damaged. I fear that my capacity to love, to truly love, is even more gone than it was before. This feeling remains, the feeling that all that matters about me is my appearance and my little act. I don’t matter as a person and I never have. That’s what my heart is telling me and what’s eating me up.
It is the worst kind of damage ‘working’ as an escort does. Just like being a model, it reduces you to being just a body and perhaps a fake personality. Worst of all, it’s not really work. Work gives something, it provides meaning, while these things only give money. Not that I mind having money, I am quite a decadent person, but it’s not what’s most important.
Instead of giving meaning, it reduces meaning. It made me worse in every way. I wasn’t forced into anything or exploited like so many women are. I was lucky, I guess. Or it could just be the privilege following privilege that’s the story of my life. I’m what people want, tall, pretty, white, well-educated, higher class, and all those things. I’m what my dates liked to show off with, to spend time with.
I hesitate to call what I did prostitution. Not just because of the horrible meaning of that word, but also because I believe that it diminishes the horror that so many women have gone through. I’ve not been raped, I’ve not been abused. I’ve never had to endure the touch of someone I loathe. What I did, what I’ve been through, it’s nothing compared to that.
But, despite that, I hate myself. I find myself a loathsome person, someone who doesn’t care for anything but herself and her own greed. I’m quitting. That’s one of the freedoms that privilege gives me. I can just quit. I can close this chapter and leave it behind. There isn’t anyone to force me to stay. At the same time, I can’t ever leave it behind. I’ve met so many amazing women, I’ve heard so many stories, I’ve learned so much, at a price.
In my heart, I’m dead. Or close to it. I’ll quit being an escort, but that doesn’t change my fundamental issues. I’m sorry that this has become such a rambling piece, I just had to write this, although I don’t quite know why.